


Guilt

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A broken Boromir regrets.





	Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He brings Boromir’s meal on a silver tray, laden with all the best the kitchens have to offer—the sort of fare usually reserved for Denethor alone. The steward would have a fit if his lesser son were to sample the delights, but Faramir doesn’t steal a single morsel. He carries the tray faithfully into Boromir’s room, where he elbows the door closed behind himself and turns to sigh. The room is no better than he left it—dark and dreary, only one lone candle lit by the bedside.

Boromir is only half propped up in bed. He’s slouching, slumped, bearing a heaviness he’s had since his return, right through his healing and Faramir’s tender care. Faramir’s done everything he can to make his brother _well_ , but he has no bandages that will mend the spirit. 

He sets the tray down on the bedside table, because he knows Boromir isn’t ready to take it. Boromir hardly eats. He barely sleeps, only lies and stares into the distance, haunted by horrors he won’t tell a soul. The healers have given up on him. Denethor’s screamed himself hoarse trying to make them return, but Faramir’s allowed their quiet dismissal. He tends to Boromir himself instead, because he knows if anyone can reach his brother, it’s him. Boromir’s never failed him before.

He takes a careful seat on the bed, next to the blanket-covered hump of Boromir’s legs, and whispers through the silence, “I’m worried.” Boromir doesn’t so much as twitch, even when Faramir lays a hand on his. Boromir’s skin is disconcertingly cold. Faramir strokes it gently, trying to warm it, and says for the hundredth time, “Tell me what is wrong.”

Boromir only turns away. His head lulls stubbornly to the other side, gazing into the shadows of the room, seeing things that Faramir can’t. Faramir lifts his other hand to cup Boromir’s cheek, and he gently guides Boromir’s head back, trying to force eye contact. Boromir won’t have it. He’s as despondent as ever, until Faramir breathes, “Boromir, _please_.”

Then Boromir hisses a short, “No,” and wrenches away. 

Faramir chases him anyway. “What is it?” Boromir shakes his head, Faramir pressing, “I know you don’t sulk over your wounds, and you should be rejoicing now that you’ve survived them! If I hadn’t found you in that boat in time...”

Boromir cuts him off to growl, “You would not understand!”

“Why?” Boromir doesn’t answer, but Faramir surges on, “I’ve always understood you before. I know you better than anyone. Why, Boromir? Why would I not understand?”

Boromir’s mouth works, but for a long moment, no sound escapes it. He’s struggling, as he’s been for days. Weeks. The he shuts his eyes and quietly admits, “Because you would not have made the same mistake. You would not have shamed yourself.”

“Please.” 

A war fights across Boromir’s face. But Faramir knows he’s found a crack. He squeezes Boromir’s hand in reassurance and drops the other to Boromir’s side, his gaze fixed on Boromir’s dark eyes. They’re clouded over, untouched by the firelight. His honey locks are a ragged mess, though Faramir’s tried to keep them brushed. He’ll continue doing so, if he must, but he waits and hopes for Boromir to finally bring an end to this. Finally, Boromir mutters, “I... did not tell our father the full story. I did not even tell you. Faramir, I... I didn’t nobly send Frodo on his way.” He pauses, drawing in a shaken breath, and Faramir waits still, until Boromir breathes, “I tried to take the ring by force.”

Faramir has no reaction. Not yet. He’s patient, but Boromir growls at only himself, shaking his head as though that should be the end of the story—should explain it all. He rushes on, “And it is because of my folly that the Fellowship was broken! I was a monster, Faramir! I demanded it of him, even tried to use my strength against him—I claimed such strength, yet I had not enough to resist what all the others had! I was weak against its power! And I know now I would’ve only done harm with it. And _everyone_ knew that but me.”

It takes Faramir a moment to recall certain details of the earlier story, and then he quietly counters, “Not everyone.” Boromir looks up at him, and Faramir clarifies, “The elves you spoke of were very wise, but very old. You could not hope to gain the insight they must’ve earned over centuries. You are only a Man, Boromir. A great one, yes, but mortal still. And no one mortal, even one elf, could stand against the darkness alone.”

Boromir shakes his weary head. His eyes glimmer strangely in the candlelight, and Faramir realizes that they’re rimmed with tears that cling to Boromir’s fair lashes. He mutters bitterly, “I was such a fool.”

There’s nothing Faramir can really say. He wishes he’d been there—to council Boromir, to comfort him, to explain to the Halflings that his brother is under _so_ much pressure, and the weight of it would break anyone. It speaks volumes of him that Boromir can at least claim his mistakes. Faramir’s no less proud of him than before. 

Faramir gently kisses Boromir’s forehead, as their people do in parting, for his dismissal of the shadow. Then he pulls Boromir gently into him, drawing Boromir forward, and Boromir comes like a quivering child. He clings to Faramir’s back, his arms as powerful as Faramir remembers—Boromir always held him, when he was small and shunned, by the guards or their own father. Boromir was always there for him. 

He’s grateful he can return the favour. He rubs soothing circles across Boromir’s back and murmurs, “You are forgiven, Boromir. All would forgive you. You did much for the bearer of the ring, and you may yet do more still. Let go of the past. You’re here now, where you can do so much _good_. This city needs you. The Fellowship still needs you. If there is to be any hope, you must forgive yourself, because Gondor must stand, and it needs its greatest son most of all.”

Boromir nods wetly into his shoulder. Faramir holds him for as long as Boromir needs, and it seems a long while before Boromir finally withdraws. He’s still slumping when he does, but his lips bear the faintest smile, the first one since his return. Faramir missed it.

Faramir plucks up the tray again and maneuvers it over across Boromir’s lap, ordering, “Now, eat. You’ll need your strength if you’re to stand again. And you _will_ stand with Gondor, won’t you?”

Boromir answers, “Always.” Then he bows his head and whispers, “Thank you,” before picking up his fork to start.


End file.
